


Rotten Ghosts

by Magesylvain



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Gen, Mental Health Issues, Mild Gore, POV Second Person, Pre-Relationship, Pre-Time Skip
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-28
Updated: 2020-01-28
Packaged: 2021-02-27 15:01:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 849
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22449094
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Magesylvain/pseuds/Magesylvain
Summary: Your father sits across the table from you, his head in his hands. There is blood seeping from his severed neck, pouring down his regal blue robes, across the table and into the food. It dripDripDripsDown over the edge, pooling at your feet.
Relationships: Dimitri Alexandre Blaiddyd & Dedue Molinaro, Dimitri Alexandre Blaiddyd/Dedue Molinaro
Kudos: 34





	Rotten Ghosts

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by  
> https://twitter.com/fe_sashimi/status/1221107480773591040 [a black and white picture of pre-timeskip Dimitri looking to the side as ghost child!dimitri whispers into his ear while covered in blood and crying]  
> So this is my very first time posting to Ao3, but I saw that drawing and ended up writing something that I really liked so, Ta-da, hope you enjoy  
> (also I don't know fully know how hallucinations really work, so if I got something wrong I'm sorry, I just wanted to describe gorey ghosts)

Your father sits across the table from you, his head in his hands. There is blood seeping from his severed neck, pouring down his regal blue robes, across the table and into the food. It drip

Drip

Drips

Down over the edge, pooling at your feet.

His eyes are not the beautiful sapphire bright blue they had once been. They are pale, glassy and white. There is no life or love in those eyes. They are a yawning white chasm of hate and agony. They are the empty eyes of the dead. 

His blonde hair is dull, it is wispy and coated with fresh and old (years old) blood. 

His flesh is an unnatural white, the only colour the deep empty blue of his veins. 

His mouth is bloody and agape. He has no tongue. A crow took it away as you sit (sat?) and stare (stared?) at his corpse (years and years ago). 

He still manages to make demands of revenge well without it.

Glenn looms over you, casting a shadow that encompasses you. The only thing that you can smell is charred flesh and burnt hair. 

You know that if you were to turn around, you would see his flesh burned away to bone, of exposed tendons that move and pull as he screams. 

There is not much left to what you could call a face, or even a mouth, yet still he screams. Yet still he demands vengeance. 

Your mother, your step mother, stands further away. She is standing by the windows, as you have often seen her in life, wistfully looking out of them. 

You never actually saw her die.

And yet still, with her body turned towards you, you see her neck adorned with a large slit that pours red down her pretty blue gown. 

When she speaks it is accompanied by a waterfall of gurgling gushing blood that coats her teeth and chin. It does not stop her demands. 

They are not the only ones in the hall.  
There are far more. 

Knights, soldiers, nobles, family, citizens of Duscur. 

Their corpses litter the floor, their blood paints the walls.

Some of them are fresh, they continue to bleed and bleed and bleed, never once running dry. 

Some are charred beyond recognition. As the people they once were. As humans at all. 

Some are bloated and rotten, their flesh pusstous and sickly.

Some still are like your father, your mother, like Glenn. They walk as they had in the moments of their death, screaming. 

All of them join their voices to the demands of justice.

You do not look at any of these things. You do not listen. You learned many years ago that these things are not real, that they can not be real (they feel so real, how are they not real?). You learned that others do not see the things that you do, they do not hear. So you pretend and you do not look, you do not listen (but they are getting so much louder, they demand blood, vengeance, peace). 

Your father demands heads (A head for a head, he had laughed, blood spilling from his rotted mouth).

You do not look. You do not listen. You pick up your fork and put a piece of bloodsoaked food into your mouth. It is not the first time you have been glad you can no longer taste.

You see your father flicker from view in the corner of your eye. You chance a glance up, to find that the rest of your classmates are gathering around the table to sit with you. 

You smile at them, in a way that you hope is natural (it is not), and greet them in a way that you hope is not stiff (it is, but that is something they love about you anyways). 

You are grateful for their presence, they are a welcome distraction. 

Yet your father is still there, now looming over them, casting an even larger shadow than Glenn’s. The blood drips from his neck down into Felix’s hair and onto his face. It carves the same path as the charred flesh of Glenn’s. Glenn howls in agony and rage behind you. 

The ghosts rarely disappear, the blood rarely runs dry. The screaming rarely stops. The demands never do. 

You look to your side as you feel a large presence settle down beside you. You look up into Dedue’s warm sea green eyes, and suddenly, you are pulled to shore.

Your father’s head rests upon its shoulders, his eyes a beautiful sapphire bright blue, his hair spun silk gold, his skin warm and pink. 

Glenn is quiet, his shadow no longer darkening everything it touches, the smell fades away. 

Your mother’s neck is now adorned by a ruby necklace, her dress pristine and unstained. 

There are no dead scattered about the floor, the walls remain unpainted stone. 

The screams are muted, the blood runs dry. 

You smile, warm and genuine and real. You thank Dedue. 

He does not ask why, and you do not explain. He understands, better than anyone else could.


End file.
